


happy little homemaker

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Male-Female Friendship, Painting, picking out paint colors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Post-Framework fluff with Daisy and Coulson sorting through feelings.





	happy little homemaker

"Quite the happy little homemaker."

He stops after a long, smooth stroke of his paintbrush, looking at the pale gray left in its path, then takes his time turning around to face her.

Standing there with her arms crossed, fingers almost tucked inside the dark blue sweater she's wearing, there's a thought in passing.

Wondering if she's been there for a moment, or did she watch....but then he pushes that thought away.

Still too fresh and complicated now that they're outside of the Framework again. At least, they have to believe they're outside of it now.

What other choice do they have?

"I thought I should make a contribution, since, robot me helped blow it up," he jokes.

That makes her smile, which is what he wanted, and he finds himself smiling in return.

"You, and walls," she sighs, coming closer, to stand beside him, her face suddenly contemplative.

He wonders if she's talking about when he was carving, or if it's about something else.

Then he swallows and watches her eyes looking at the paint drying, like there's something more there, before they flicker up to his.

It's not that he wants to hide from her, but there's something there that makes him afraid he'll tell her _everything_.

That he won't be able to help himself.

"I used the same color as before," he says aloud, to himself as much as her. "Pretty predictable."

"Practical," she corrects him. "It's just a hallway, Coulson."

He looks down at the bucket of paint, the greige tint to it that looks almost sterile once the lights hit it.

This is just a passageway, it's not the destination, and it makes him wonder, again, about where exactly they've ended up.

"But we're here now," he reminds her, and sets the brush down in the pan and looks for something else to do with his hands, and gestures to the damp rag that's sitting on the stack of crates next to her.

She makes a tiny noise and picks it up, hands it over to him, and their fingers touch.

It's like he stuck his finger in a socket, the pleasant buzz of it, and he feels a pang of guilt for reasons he's not entirely sure of.

"Here," she says to him, taking his hands in hers and drawing closer, pushing his shirt sleeves further up his arms. "Let me."

And she turns his wrist with her fingers then wipes the damp cloth against his palm.

He can't stop staring at her hands, the careful way they're touching his. The prosthetic, gentle with it. Just like it's real.

"Too bad we don't have some of that soap of yours," she teases, trying to wipe the paint residue away rather than just smear it.

"Hey, I made really good soap," he smiles, pulled out of another moment into this one. The tension starts to ebb away.

"I'm sure you did," she replies, and removes her hand with the rag, dumps it back on the crate. "Just a happy little homemaker."

"I think I'm starting to have regrets about my regrets," he tells her, trying to turn it into a joke.

"You can have that here," she says, all warmth and empathy in her voice. "You know that, right?"

His eyes start to widen as she looks up at him with those sad eyes of hers, and he can't imagine that she could feel guilt in any way about taking him away from that place. Surely not.

When he releases a heavy sigh, she starts to back away. And this moment is starting to slip away. He has to do something.

"Greige is kind of boring, isn't it?" he calls to her, and she stops moving, stands very still.

"It's very practical," she repeats, curious-sounding.

"What color should we make it?" he asks her, walking to her, putting his hands on his hips.

"I am not-" she starts, getting flustered and trying to look at the wall, but it seems like she can't stop looking at him instead. "Good at this sort of stuff."

"You can always start," he smiles at her. "We could pick out a color?" Together. He hopes she understands that part.

"If you want to _help_ me," she starts awkwardly. "This is kind of your thing."

"It _is_ kind of my thing." His eyebrows raise as she shifts ever-so-closer. "But it could be _our_ thing?"

That startles her for a moment, and she glances between his mouth and his eyes, as if she's making sure they're both saying the same thing.

"I would like that," she answers, her eyelashes fluttering and stare fixed on his.

Dammit. He's never been so flustered over picking out a paint color in his life. His whole face goes hot in waves at every movement she makes, so close they're almost touching again.

"Blue?" she says, looking into his eyes, very decidedly. "Bluish? Bleige?" She grins. "Is that a thing?"

"I don't think so," he laughs shortly, trying not to embarrass himself any more than he already has.

She doesn't seem to mind, though. She's looking at him as though she's enjoying every reaction he's having.

And he's having a lot of reactions.  All at once.

Daisy goes easy on him, though. She reaches up and pulls him down to kiss her.

She kisses back like she knows what she wants, and maybe that she wants it all at once.

That's a very Daisy thing, he thinks. She hasn't been able to have all the things she deserves, and never knows when they'll leave again.

He wants to tell her that he'll never leave her, even though he can't make promises like that, he knows.

He wants to make her believe it anyway.

Her fingers are against his jaw, her breath against his lips in a pause, and she closes her eyes.

Then he puts his hands on her, wrapping her in his arms, and she sighs and presses her face against his chest, a little sound of contentment vibrating against him.

She fits so well here.

It's like he's home.


End file.
